Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
My brother’s fast on his skates, easily zig-zagging past Bayfield’s defense. He pushes up the ice, deftly handling the puck before passing to Collins, our center, who attempts a one-timer, just barely deflected by their goalie. Jacob’s all over the place, relentless on the forecheck, keeping Bayfield’s defenders scrambling.
I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s shrugged off the funk he was in at practice. Even though Skarsgard is stealing some of his limelight, it doesn’t seem to bother him.
Meanwhile, Hayes anchors our defense, sticking tight to Bayfield’s forwards whenever they try to break into our zone. He’s solid, as usual, keeping their offense from getting too close, which I appreciate every time he clears the puck out of our end. But there’s a problem: Bayfield’s winger, Brett Jansen, is on the ice, and he and Hayes have a bad history.
Before the game, Coach Thornton reminded him to keep his play clean. The last time he faced off against Jansen, they both ended up in the penalty box. It’s not long before the two of them are exchanging words, which progress to hard checks and shoves, and I can tell it’s only a matter of time before one of them loses it.
“Hayes. Don’t fucking let him get under your skin,” I yell as he flies in front of the goal to hit the puck out of the danger zone.
“Fuck him,” Hayes grunts back.
Off the ice, my brother is super chill, but when it comes to the game, his temper can be vicious, a contrast that Coach Thornton struggles to deal with.
It isn’t until midway through the second period that the tension boils over when Jansen takes a cheap shot at Hayes right by the boards, sending him sprawling. Hayes is up in an instant, fists flying, and before I know it, they’re locked in a brawl, each throwing punches that dislodge helmets. The refs blow the whistle and rush to break them up, as the crowd goes wild, but not before Hayes lands a solid hit to Jansen’s face—and takes one right back. Moments later, Hayes is escorted to the penalty box, blood trickling from a fresh cut above his eyebrow.
He shoots me a quick look as he sits down, bloodied and fuming. I want to nod back in support, but there’s no time; Bayfield’s on a power play now, and they’re coming in hot. I settle back, staying low, ready for whatever they throw my way.
The puck barrels down the ice, Bayfield’s forwards advancing like sharks, eager to capitalize on our penalty. They pass quickly, trying to confuse me, but I’m locked in, following each move, each fake. One shot ricochets off my blocker, bouncing out in front of the crease, but I kick it away before they can pounce on the rebound. My body is on high alert, snapping from one position to the next. We kill the penalty just before Hayes returns to the ice, grinning through the blood smeared over his face. When we’re back to full strength, the crowd roars and the tension eases.
In the third period, the Bayfield team is getting desperate. As the clock winds down, they throw everything they have at me, hoping for a late comeback. But our defense is tight, and the shots that do get through are easy to deflect. With only a minute left, Jacob makes one final rush up the ice, weaving past Bayfield’s tired defenders and sending the puck sailing into the empty net. The buzzer sounds, and it’s over—we’ve won.
The guys swarm around me, cheering and pounding my back. It’s not my first shut-out, but it’s still damn sweet. Jacob’s grinning like a madman, and even Hayes, with his busted eyebrow and cheek, is laughing. The high of a hard-won victory thrums through me. Nothing beats this—the thrill of the game, the cheers of the crowd, the pride of a win. But there’s something else in the back of my mind, something I can’t quite shake.
Riley.
The way she looked at me yesterday, that smirk she tried to hide—it wasn’t just friendly. Maybe it’s wishful thinking because the idea of fucking her is like an itch I can’t scratch. I wonder if she’s watching and what she thought of the game.
Hayes slaps my back, the brawl with Jansen forgotten despite his busted face. “Fuck, man. That’s how it’s done,” he yells, pulling the back of my neck until our helmets smack together.
Am I an asshole for going after Riley when we all agreed it was better to stay clear?
Maybe.
I won’t keep it from them forever. Just until I’ve had a chance to give her what she’s pretending not to want but is salivating for.
The guys start heading off the ice, still celebrating, and I follow, lighter than I’ve been in weeks.
Tonight’s a win and tomorrow?
Tomorrow, if I get what I want, the buzz from this win will be nothing compared to making Riley come.